3 the heart of chaos

by ich du

  'What would you have me ask?' Jakob said, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the messenger, which looked back at him with a shifting plethora of anger-filled purple eyes.

  There was no reply, and Jakob asked again.

  'I would know,' said Asdubar hesitantly, 'what has become of the Sutenvulf?'

  The daemon's face drained sideways to look at the chieftain, fixing him with its baleful glare. A mouth split where its forehead should have been, and the words that it uttered were loud and shrill.

  'He is gone,' the creature shrieked. 'He is beyond. He is and was, but no more. He is nowhere and everywhere.'

  It slid its eyes back to Jakob.

  'I have answered,' it howled. 'Release me! Set me free! I must dance upon the wind of change!'

  'Another question first,' said Jakob.

  The creature hissed and spat small sparks of blue energy.

  'One question more,' it screeched.

  'Sutenvulf was blessed by the gods in life,' said the shaman. 'Is he equally blessed now?'

  'The gods do not grant their favours lightly,' the creature whined in its unnatural voice, its eyes sliding left and right as its face rearranged constantly. 'What is given may yet be taken away. Now release me!'

  Jakob snarled another invocation and the creature whined with pain, its body rippling furiously as it tried to resist the shaman's dismissal. With a strange, sickly smell filling the air, it departed.

  Sudai's bloodied, misshapen body fell to the ground, his limbs hanging limply in their sockets, his skin torn with gaping rents. Jakob stood over him, the rune-stone still held in his hand.

  'Will the boy live?' Asdubar demanded, stepping forward. He stopped as Vlamdir also took a pace forward, his fingers on the handle of the axe at his belt.

  'No.' said Jakob turning his head to look at the chieftain, motes of energy dancing around his unnatural eye. 'I can end his pain, if you wish.'

  Asdubar nodded and Jakob turned away and crouched over the lad. With one long swing, he brought the rune-stone down onto the boy's skull, smashing it against the hard ground. The blood spattered from the wound across the rune-stone, and then soaked into it like water on dry sand.

  Jakob pushed himself up, standing as upright as he was able, and turned to face Asdubar and the others.

  'The Pass of Kings.' the shaman said. 'There, you will find the truth.'

  CHAPTER THREE

  Signs

  Wolfenburg, Late summer 1712

  THE AUDIENCE HALL of Wolfenburg keep was silent, in contrast to the heated arguments that had raged for the past four days. Count Steinhardt glowered down the length of the table at Vapold, whose own stare was equally venomous. Between them, their aides and advisors sat stunned, avoiding each others gazes, toying with the parchments and quills on the table in front of them.

  Steinhardt stood slowly and leaned with his knuckles on the chipped polish of the long table, his stocky frame hunched forward. He moistened his lips with his tongue, his eyes not leaving the man at the other end of the table.

  'I dare you to repeat that.' Steinhardt said, his voice low and deep.

  Vapold looked back at him, swept a hand through his hair and assumed an air of indifference.

  'A traitor once will be a traitor twice.' he repeated. 'The blood of my family stains your hands and no assurances of yours can wash that away. I cannot countenance an alliance with an usurper.'

  'Traitor?' Steiner said, his voice calm, his eyes betraying the rage inside. 'Usurper? This from the man who takes counsel from rebels?'

  He pointed at Lord Bayard, who sat at Vapold's right hand, and the knight stood up himself and returned accusation.

  'Your father swore the oath of the Osterknacht.' Bayard shouted. 'His son has turned on us, betrayed his own family and his comrades.'

  'My forefather founded the Osterknacht,' replied Steinhardt, 'when he was the count of Ostermark. Or had you forgotten that? I am no usurper, to exert my right to the station owed to me by my birth.'

  'A claim that has not been made in a hundred years since your grandfather ceded the title.' Vapold said. He sighed heavily and waved for the two men to sit down. 'It appears that our positions are irreconcilable. For four days we have made the same arguments back and forth, with no resolution.'

  'You realised that if we cannot agree this, a state of war will still exist between us?' said Steinhardt, still standing. 'Do you really wish that?'

  'It would be you that is foolish if you wish to wage war a hundred leagues from your capital.' said Bayard. 'Your threats are pointless.'

  Steinhardt threw up his hands in despair and shook his head.

  'I did not want war.' he said, sitting down and snatching a goblet from the table, spilling red wine over its lip. He took a deep draught and then thudded the goblet down. 'I simply want written assurances that the boy or his heirs will make no further claim to Ostermark. After that, you can do what you want with him.'

  'And you think that when he is a man, he will be able to honour such a promise?' said Vapold. 'His brother's murderer sat on his throne in Mordheim, wielding the Runefang that should be his. No one would sign away his birthright, no one.'

  'I did not murder the boy,' Steinhardt insisted through gritted teeth. 'He tried to attack me, I swear to Sigmar.'

  'Be careful what you swear, my lord,' Ursula's voice cut across the room from where she was seated by the wall.

  All turned towards her, having almost forgotten her presence in the heated debate. She stood and walked to the table, her cold gaze on Steinhardt.

  'Do you really swear by Sigmar that the boy's death was unavoidable?' she asked.

  'Yes I do!' replied Steinhardt. 'He snatched a sword from one of my men and charged at me. It was a reaction, nothing more. He would have carved open my gut if I hadn't stopped him.'

  'Surely you cannot believe such a story,' said Bayard. 'The man's word is worthless.'

  Ursula stared deep into Steinhardt's eyes, measuring him, judging him.

  'I believe him,' she said eventually.

  'You of all people must understand why I have done what I have done,' said Steinhardt, his voice almost pleading with Ursula. 'I make no secret of my ambition, but it is not for myself alone. If what you say is true, if there is indeed an army of the northmen on the verge of...'

  'It is true,' Ursula interrupted him.

  'Well then,' continued Steinhardt with only the briefest of pauses, 'you would agree that Ostermark must be strong. Count Emmereind was a mere boy, and more than half the knights and nobles had no faith in him or his regent. Ostermark was a land divided years before I took it upon myself to make her strong again. With Ostland and Talabecland, we stand against the northern borders. The invasion of the Ironclaw in the south has shown what can happen if our watch is not relentless, if our guard is not eternal. Ostermark was failing in its duty. A strong Ostermark is a strong Empire.'

  'Spare us the speeches,' said Vapold. 'There has not been an Imperial election in two centuries. Ostland and Ostermark have been rivals in all that time.'

  'And yet there was a time when they were not,' said Ursula, turning to Vapold. 'There was a time, like now, when the threat from the north waxed large. Your ancestor Count Urdin was here, sat in this very room, when news arrived from the Ostermark that the Blood-terror had crossed the Urskoy. Perhaps where you are seated right now, he wrote a letter to Count Vandel, pledging his army to the relief of Bechafen.'

  She turned to Steinhardt.

  'You know the tale,' she said, and the count nodded sombrely. 'That messenger dared the siege to bring hope to Vandel, your forefather, who held out against the savage attacks of the northmen for a month while Urdin marched to his relief. Had he not known that another stood alongside him, would he have fought so hard? Had he believed himself alone, would he have walked the walls day and night with his Runefang bared, exhorting his men to fight against the tides of brutal warriors? Would he have had the courage to repel assault after assault if he had not bel
ieved there was hope?'

  She looked along the table at all of the men gathered there, her hand straying to the hilt of Ulfshard. Her face was defiant, determined.

  'Ask yourself this.' she said, pacing along the length of the table. 'Would we be sat here, would this castle have been built, would this city have existed if Sigmar and King Kurgan had allowed themselves to be divided? Would our great lord have been able to stand alone at Black Fire Pass?'

  The counts and advisors shook their heads and stroked their chins, eyes fixed to Ursula as she rounded the end of the table and stood beside Vapold. She crossed her arms and glared at them.

  'Men often scoff at legends.' she told them. 'The days of glory have passed, they tell themselves. They dismiss them as myths, or if true, then never to be repeated by mere mortals such as us. Every man contains within him the stuff of legend. 'You,' she pointed at one of the scribes, a wizened scholar with greying hair, his left arm quivering with palsy, 'would you have a part to play in creating a new legend?'

  'My sword arm is not as strong as it used to be,' he chuckled, 'and I was never much of a fighter, but if you asked me, I would strap myself to a horse and do my best.'

  'And yet, frail as you are, you have a part to play.' she said, standing behind him and plucking the quill from his hand. 'With this, you can record history. With strokes of this pen, you can draw up the alliance that will see Ostermark and Ostland united once again. You will be known down through the generations, and historians will know your name as the man who sat here while the great and the good forged their futures upon the anvil of battle. You will be the man who recorded their sagas so that in another hundred and fifty years, in times of worry, when doubt is strong, perhaps another man of power, another count of the Empire, might draw inspiration from the deeds that you will perform in honour of this agreement.'

  Ursula fell silent for a moment, her audience entranced by her fiery passion, and placed the pen back into the old man's hand. She walked back down the table and gestured for Steinhardt to rise.

  'Draw your Runefang.' she commanded, and the count of Ostermark did so without hesitation, laying the shining, rune-etched blade on the table, pommel held lightly in his grasp. Ursula turned to Vapold and pointed at him, and he did the same, though slightly more hesitantly. She then drew Ulfshard, bathing the faces of those present in the blue glow of the elven blade.

  'Older still than your swords, I risked my life to reclaim the blade of Marbad.' she told them. 'It has taken me far, to dark and dangerous places, and yet I believe that I have honoured the privilege of being its bearer with my deeds. I am not of noble birth. I am not a baroness or a countess. I command no men other than those who would willingly follow me. I have no wealth, no coffers to hire an army. I wield no power but this sword and my faith in our lord Sigmar.'

  She paused then, looking at each of the counts to ensure that her meaning was clear. She was relying upon them both.

  'Each of you carries a Runefang, your symbol of power.' she continued. 'You did not earn them, they were your birthright. They were forged seventeen centuries ago, and gifted to your forefathers by King Kurgan, as he had gifted Ghal-maraz to almighty Sigmar. They swore oaths upon those blades, to uphold the ideals of their first Emperor and to defend the realm that he had created. They were forged to symbolise the strength of the newborn Empire. Strong leaders, brave warriors, united in their cause. When a Runefang is raised against another, it is a joy to our enemies, for in our division they can sense our weakness. Raise your swords not against each other, but beside each other, and they shall know fear. Swear the oaths that your ancestors swore seventeen hundred years ago. Pledge yourselves to Sigmar and the Empire once again. Do it not for ceremony, for rite of law or tradition. Do it because you mean it. Do it because you believe in Sigmar and what he bequeathed to us.'

  Vapold and Steinhardt looked at each other, and then looked at Ursula. She stood waiting patiently, looking like a stern school matron if not for the shimmering elven blade in her hand. They looked at each other again and then, cautiously, raised their swords in the air.

  'With this blade I pledge.' Ursula prompted them. 'You know the words.'

  Indeed they both did, having uttered them at their investitures as electors of the Empire, though the position was now all but defunct. Though the words had subtly changed from the time of the first tribal leaders who had founded the Empire, their meaning was still clear.

  'With this blade I pledge myself to Sigmar and his realm.' Steinhardt began and Vapold followed him, their words conjoining. 'I swear to uphold the honour of the Empire and my title as count. As it is my right to rule, so it is my duty to protect. I will wield this blade with righteous anger and ferocious courage against those who would despoil our lands. By our lord and Emperor, Sigmar Unberogen, I swear my allegiance to his eternal service. With the gods as my witness and my judges, this pledge to bind me until death and beyond.'

  Silence once more descended on the hall as the two counts stood there, facing each other, their Runefangs held in salute. Steinhardt looked at Ursula and Vapold smiled wryly.

  'My lords.' she said, pointing to the torn agreements and petitions scattered across the table, 'I thank you for your trust in me. Now you must put your trust in each other. In writing if you feel it necessary.'

  THE TIN CUP trembled in Magnus's hand, splashing water over his robes. He swallowed the remaining contents and refilled it, draining this second fill in one long draught. The cup clattered out of his hand as he tried to put it down, and he left it lying on the floor and staggered to the window. Thrusting it open, he took in a deep breath of cool night air. Spots of rain dabbed his face but he did not notice them. He was too preoccupied with the sensations coursing through his body.

  It had started in the audience chamber, where the counts still wrangled with each other. Ursula's impassioned speech had set Magnus's senses tingling, and when she had heard the pledges of the counts, her aura had grown even greater, feeding off the renewed hope and faith of everyone in the room. Even Magnus, who had been taught to manipulate such energies, and ward them away if necessary, had been touched by it.

  It was not only that. The surge of thrilling power had been the beginning, but there was something else that now coursed through him on the winds of magic. To his hidden sense it was like a foul taste, an acrid smell. It was a foulness that hung in the air itself and seeped through the walls and ceiling.

  Looking out over the lights of Wolfenburg, he could sense it even now, though it was much more dissipated than it had been in the lower levels of the castle. He could see it with his second sight, like a black cloud drifting down on the magical winds from the north, polluting everything that it rolled over.

  Feeling its touch made his skin crawl, and he felt like retching. Holding back the contents of his stomach, he made his way back to the pitcher of water, half-clambering over the desks, using them to support himself. He drank straight from the jug, not caring that water spilled down his chest.

  The taste, the rank smell would not leave him though. He floundered around the room for a moment, unsure what to do. Everything was steeped in the corrupting tide, lingering on the furniture, settling into the rugs beneath his feet. He could not concentrate, could not focus his mind enough to shape the ill forces sweeping around him.

  He scrabbled at one desk, his cramped fingers fumbling with the catch to its secret drawer. He finally succeeded in opening it and snatched the book from inside. Staggering over to the bed, he collapsed, lying sideways, his vision swimming for a moment. Closing his eyes, he took another deep lungful of air and realised that he had been holding his breath. As if that would help him, he admonished himself.

  Flicking open the book, he squinted at the small, neatly written words by the light of the single candle by the bedside. He hastily turned the pages, tearing one clumsily as he did so. Finding the page he wanted, he scanned the words and then began to read out loud.

  As the words spilled from his lips,
Magnus could feel the power flowing through him, shaping itself to his will. Like a bubble in water, the energy expanded around him, pushing back the mystical malaise that had overwhelmed him. As he finished the enchantment, the magic solidified into a protective barrier, cutting off all the energy.

  Exhausted and sick, Magnus rolled to his back, the book flopping from his fingers onto the floor. Safe for the moment, he allowed unconsciousness to take him.

  JOHANNES WAS CHATTERING happily as they walked down the street. He was in high spirits, and despite Ursula's short, often monosyllabic answers and Ruprecht's silence, he did a good job of keeping the one-sided conversation going.

  Ruprecht drowned out the young man's idle musings on the weather, the state of the count's stables and other random subjects. He listened instead to the people around them. His eyes took in everything as they walked along the road winding around Wolfenburg. It was a technique he had learned while he had been an agent for Marius. Often he would travel to a place before the witch hunter, unknown and unobserved, and simply walk around the village or town, using his eyes and ears to pick up anything.

  Thinking back to Marius, Ruprecht still felt a pang of regret. For years they had been companions, even friends. Though Marius had been claimed by a growing madness in the end, haunted by the death of his wife and determined to hunt down the son of her killer, he had not always been so obsessed. He had been a good man, and had saved the lives of many people from the dark forces that constantly threatened the Empire.